


Tierce

by chaosmanor



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Christmas, Committed Relationship, Community: slashababy, Fic Exchange, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 22:39:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosmanor/pseuds/chaosmanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>SUMMARY</b>: <b>tierce</b>, <i>noun</i>: one of three equal parts of a<br/>divisible whole</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tierce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Slashfairy (SlashFairy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlashFairy/gifts).



Sidi dragged on his lead, almost wrenching Kris's arm off, and Kris wrenched  
back. "Sit down, stupid dog," Kris said. "He's not here, okay?"

Orlando's front door swung open finally, Sidi threw himself through the door  
and into the empty flat, barking loudly, and Kris let go of the lead with  
relief.

"Ridiculous dog," he muttered to himself as he disarmed the security system,  
and there was a crash from one of the bedrooms.

That wouldn't be good, but Kris had had to become impervious to the trail of  
destruction the dog left behind him, purely to manage his own stress levels.

The place smelt bad, so Kris unlocked the kitchen window and pushed it open,  
letting in a blast of freezing cold London air, disturbing the fine layer of  
dust over everything. He'd have to arrange for a cleaner to come in  
occasionally, for as long as the flat stood empty. Perhaps forever.

First task, take the rubbish out before Sidi got to it.

Rubbish disposed of, Kris pushed Sidi back indoors and started in on what  
he'd actually been sent over to do: packing up some of Orlando's clothes and  
belongings.

Orlando had a serried row of suitcases in one of the spare rooms, so Kris  
dragged down the largest one and then opened the main closet in Orlando's  
room. "Send my real clothes," Orlando had said on the phone, the sounds of  
the final day of shooting loud behind him. "You know which ones."

Kris did. Most of the closet was working clothes: dark suits, fashionable  
jeans, a pile of nondescript sweatshirts, single-colour shirts, narrow ties.  
Behind the mountains of discarded scripts and clothing blocking the far  
closet door, which Kris moved by shoving with his feet, were the real  
clothes. Sidi burst out from under the bed, shoe in his mouth, just as Kris  
opened that closet door, and Kris ignored him. Not his shoe, not his  
problem.

Shirts that screamed in orange and lime. Board shorts down to the knees.  
Cowboy boots, ruffles, spots and flowers. Somewhere in the world, a  
publicist cried every time that closet door opened.

Kris chuckled at his own wit, and yanked a handful of shirts off their  
hangers. He'd seen Orlando pack; there was no need to fold anything neatly.

* * *

 

The front door still stuck slightly, needing just that little bit extra push  
before thudding open, crashing against the suitcase abandoned in the hall.  
Henry shoved the suitcase across, clearing a path into Viggo's house.

Someone--his father--had left the lights on, so Henry flicked them off as he  
went, stepping over tumbled canvases, around piles of printouts, shaking his  
head in disbelief at the mess Viggo had left. He shouldn't be surprised, not  
after so long.

His own room was relatively tidy, clothes jammed in the closet, bedding  
dragged up in an attempt to make the bed at the end of his last visit, an oasis of calm in the  
bewildering mess of the rest of the house. If Henry turned out to be an  
anally retentive neatness freak, he knew exactly who to blame.

He wasn't actually there to collect his own stuff, though he did scoop up an  
armful of his books and CDs. Viggo had emailed him, and amidst the usual  
stream-of-consciousness rambles had been a request for Henry to find some of  
Viggo's things and freight them to him.

Boxes of junk cluttered the hall, so Henry upended one of them, sending  
books tumbling across the scratched wooden boards, then dragged the box into  
Viggo's study.

The email, which Henry had printed out for reference, turned out to  
translate to the top layer of mess on the worktable, so Henry settled for  
scooping everything on the table into the box. Journals, printouts, letters,  
bills, sketches, newspaper cuttings, enough to fill half the box. The space  
left afterwards, Henry packed with boxes of photos, packs of proofs, bags of  
negatives and rolls of undeveloped film.

He'd brought tape with him, sure that despite the huge amount of stuff  
cluttering his father's house, he'd never manage to find any. What Henry  
wasn't prepared for was the sense of longing and loss he was feeling. This  
carton of ideas, more than any piece of furniture or suitcase of clothes,  
meant that just as Henry had left home, Viggo was leaving too.

* * *

Getting out of the taxi into the bright sunshine was hard work. All of  
Orlando's body was screaming at him that he needed sleep, and he suppressed  
a yawn as he paid the taxi driver.

"Git yur cases," the driver said, and Orlando nodded and jammed his  
sunglasses on tighter. It wasn't unbearably hot, not with the cool air  
moving in across the bay, but the sun reflected painfully off the water and  
the boat windows, almost blinding him despite his glasses.

He took his case, shouldered his pack, and walked down the jetty, the  
suitcase wheels clattering over the wooden planking, seagulls swooping  
around him, the smell of the ocean and the slap of waves against pylons and  
boat hulls combining to lift him past jetlag and exhaustion.

He was going home, even though he'd never seen the house before.

The water taxi was a small speedboat, and Orlando had to help the pilot lift  
his case down off the wharf. Then it was a jump and a scramble for him, and  
the driver said, "Where you off to?"

The clipped vowel sounds made Orlando smile. Some of his favourite memories  
in the world were of New Zealand; some of his favourite people were Kiwis.

"Pakihi Island," Orlando said, pulling a printout from his backpack and  
reading it. "There's a jetty to the north of Te Tamuiti Point. Do you know  
where that is?"

"Yep," the pilot said, unwinding the ropes that held the water taxi bobbing  
beside the dock. "Is there some kind of gathering happening there?" he  
asked. "You're the second person I've taken there today."

Orlando sat down on a bench at the back of the boat and took his knit hat  
off, letting the spray from the boat slicing through the swell dampen his  
hair. "No," he said, but he had to smile. Viggo was there already, and he  
couldn't stop himself from grinning at the thought that he'd be seeing both  
his lovers soon.

"How long does it take?" he called out as the boat picked up speed, moving  
away from the jetty and city, slapping over the small waves.

"About an hour," the pilot called back.

An hour. After all the time he'd waited, the nights alone, the sad phone  
calls, he'd see them both in an hour.

* * *

The water taxi took off again, leaving Orlando and his suitcase alone on a  
rickety jetty. He looked around the small bay, and at the lush green of the  
surrounding small hills. The place wasn't uninhabited, he could make out the  
roofs of a few buildings amongst the green, but there were no people in  
sight.

He'd just taken out his phone when someone hallooed, and Karl appeared at  
the entrance to a path up the slope, away from the beach.

Orlando dropped his backpack beside his suitcase and ran, along the  
crumbling jetty and across the sand, colliding solidly with Karl, hugging  
him wildly, face against his neck.

Karl laughed, wrapping arms around Orlando, swinging him around twice, then  
setting him back on his feet again.

"Missed you," Karl said, his voice a rumble against Orlando's ear.

Orlando bit at the skin of Karl's neck, just to taste him again, and Karl  
laughed and pulled back a little, so Orlando could see his face.

"Missed you too," Orlando said, and Karl smiled at him, making Orlando's  
chest tighten a little. "Missed both of you unbearably. I can't wait to see  
the house."

"It's a home," Karl said, and Orlando knew he was right.

It was their home.

The path under the trees led up stone steps, giant's steps, each two strides  
across, hewn into the hillside. Karl dragged Orlando's suitcase roughly  
behind him, and Orlando didn't care because it meant Karl's other hand was  
available for holding.

"... no pool, but we can swim in the bay," Karl said, as the steps led onto  
a sward of overgrown grass, surrounded by hibiscus trees, and a house. A  
big, stone house, with a wooden decking leading down to the grass, and huge  
picture windows.

Orlando turned to look behind them, where they had climbed the hillside, to  
see the view that the windows would encompass.

The bay was glassy green, cream sand and a gentle white splash of wave. The  
headland, across the bay, rose up dark and green with promise under a  
perfectly blue sky. Orlando could see the triangle sails of yachts beyond  
the headland, other islands in the distance, the buildings of Auckland a  
faraway glimmer in the haze.

"Well?" Karl said.

"It's gorgeous," Orlando said. "I can't believe you found somewhere like  
this."

Karl slid his arm around Orlando's shoulders and hugged him. "It's private,"  
he said, his voice low, making its way under Orlando's skin, down his spine.  
"C'mon inside."

A sliding door from the decking opened into the living room, but Karl  
abandoned Orlando's luggage, took Orlando's hand and led him through the  
kitchen and down a hall.

A bedroom door stood open, the room in shadow with wooden slatted blinds at  
the windows, a fan circling overhead, stirring the warm air.

The bedding was rumpled, bunched and pulled over a figure. Viggo was asleep  
on his side, arms wound around a pillow, legs stretched out to occupy most  
of the large bed.

"You bastards didn't wait for me," Orlando hissed.

They had rules, and that was one of them. They only fucked when they were  
all together. Orlando liked that rule, liked the feeling he was never  
excluded just because he was always working. Other rules, about never  
travelling together, made sense but he hated them. That one...

"Course we waited," Karl said, his voice quiet, his arms solid around  
Orlando's chest, holding him close. "I just wanted to show you the room..."

Orlando closed his eyes and turned around inside Karl's embrace.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I'm just so fucking tired, and I missed you so much.  
I just want to shower and go to sleep with both of you there."

The bathroom was tiled in dark green, cool and soothing, and Karl's hands  
were gentle, lifting Orlando's t-shirt over his head and unbuttoning his  
jeans.

"Shower with me?" Orlando whispered as Karl's hands slid across his skin,  
tracing the point of his hip and the curve of his arse.

"I can do that," Karl said, his mouth moving against Orlando's ear.

They hugged, just for a moment, and Orlando could feel the muscles in Karl's  
back were like steel bands, wound tight, and there was something desperate  
about the embrace. Orlando had been kind of wrapped in his own loneliness,  
stumbling through filming the last fucking Pirates movie, but Karl had been  
here, moving into their house, all by himself too.

"Which wall is mine?" Orlando asked. "How are we dividing this place up?"

"What?" Karl asked, letting go of Orlando and shaking his head at him, the  
beginnings of a smile tickling his lips.

"I figure if there're six surfaces in each room, four walls, floor and  
ceiling, then we each must own two surfaces in each room."

"That wall is mine," Karl said, pointing at the wall where hooks ran in a  
line down the length of the tiles, holding towels and robes for all three of  
them. "Because I'm the one who fusses about towels being hung up. You can  
have the mirror and basin wall."

"What about Viggo?" Orlando said, kicking his own jeans off, then pushing  
his boxers down.

"He can have the ceiling," Karl said, and Orlando grabbed the belt loops of  
Karl's jeans and tugged him closer. "So he can spend hours staring at it."

"He'll paint it," Orlando said, undoing the button of Karl's fly, then  
easing the zip undone carefully.

Karl wouldn't have underwear on, not when they were all together again.

Karl's jeans slid down, over his thighs, and Orlando's breath caught at the  
sight of Karl mostly naked and dragging a t-shirt over his head.

"Like he did the bedroom ceiling at the rented house in Wellington," Karl  
agreed, tossing his t-shirt onto the floor and leaning into the shower  
cubicle to start the water. It was a decent-sized shower, big enough for all  
three of them at a squeeze.

In the shower, Orlando leant against Karl, washcloth in his hand, rubbing it  
across Karl's belly while Karl's fingers traced the bumps of Orlando's  
spine.

"Has it been bad?" Orlando asked, and Karl nodded.

"I'm sorry," Orlando said, lifting his face from Karl's shoulder to look at  
him, blinking water out of his eyes.

"Just make sure you stay this time," Karl said.

"I'm here for good," Orlando said. "And so is Viggo."

Karl kissed him, brush and flutter of lips, and Orlando groaned and opened  
his mouth. They'd each been through individual hells to get to where they  
were, but that was over.

"You couldn't shower quietly, could you?" a voice said behind Orlando. Arms  
slid around him from behind, and Viggo stepped into the shower, so that  
Orlando was squeezed between his lovers.

Karl lifted his mouth from Orlando's, smiling, and Orlando stumbled around  
in the shower, water streaming over his face, to wrap himself around Viggo.

It was some kind of heaven, to go from Karl's gentle kisses to a  
full-mouthed encounter with Viggo, then to have Viggo break the kiss and  
lean across him to kiss Karl, while Karl's cock rode the crack of Orlando's  
arse, and someone's hand cradled Orlando's balls.

Viggo's mouth was back on Orlando's, and Orlando stopped wondering whose  
hand was where, just focused on the feel of Viggo's cock in his hand and the  
grind of Karl's body against his skin.

"Are we going to fuck in here?" Karl asked, and the flow of water stopped  
suddenly as someone turned the taps off, leaving Orlando's groaning suddenly  
loud in the silence.

"Think Orli has started already," Viggo said, his teasing belied by the  
steel length of his cock in Orlando's hand.

Viggo was as into it as he was, and Karl was shoving his cock, every  
delicious inch of it, so hard against Orlando's arse that any moment, he was  
just going to slide on in, and Orlando wasn't going to stop him.

"Remember last time..." Karl gasped, his mouth burning against Orlando's  
shoulder, and fuck, the head of his cock eased inside, no lube, riding the  
sweat of their bodies.

No glass wall on the shower, not like there had been at the hotel in New  
York, but Orlando was going to need to lie down, preferably before Karl was  
all the fucking way inside.

"Bedroom," Viggo said decisively, and he was gone, leaving Orlando  
shuddering, clutching onto the shower taps for support, eyes closed, mouth  
gasping. Karl's hands, so huge and strong, wrapped around Orlando's ribs,  
holding him upright.

Towelling wiped gently across his face, and Viggo said, "Orli, babe, think  
you can move?"

"Not with a fucking huge cock shoved in my arse," Orlando said, opening his  
eyes to find Viggo back in front of him, towel in hand.

Karl, his voice tight, said, "Damn, I was hoping you hadn't noticed."

Then the pressure and burn were gone, and Orlando found himself able to  
breathe again.

"Bedroom," Orlando said, as Karl stepped out of the shower and took a towel  
off a hook. "Where there's some fucking lube!" he called out at Karl's  
retreating back.

Orlando took the towel from Viggo, then touched his cheek gently, pressing  
fingertips against the lined skin. "Fuck, I've missed you," he whispered.

"You too," Viggo said.

There was loud groaning from the bedroom, accompanied by thudding of  
furniture and squeaking of springs, and Viggo said, "Think that might be a  
hint from Karl that we're taking too long."

The bed was wider than it was long, the bedding smelt new, and it was heaven  
to crawl across it to collapse down beside Karl, close enough for Orlando to  
lean across and slide Karl's cock into his mouth.

Karl's fingers threaded into Orlando's hair, where it clung wetly to his  
neck, and Karl groaned deeply, rocking his hips, pushing himself deeper into  
Orlando's throat.

Hands touched Orlando's arse, spreading his cheeks, and something soft and  
wet slid across his arsehole, soothing where Karl's cock had rubbed him,  
lingering, swirling and slipping.

Orlando spread his legs and tried to keep his hips still, but the crinkle of  
the new sheet against his cock was like fire, and the feeling of Viggo's  
tongue pressing into his body was irresistible.

"Lube?" Karl asked, and something whizzed through the air over Orlando's  
head to thud into the bedding, but he wasn't about to open his eyes to check  
what it was. There were other, far more responsible, people there, who  
weren't actually trying to think while Viggo's tongue was in their arse.

Karl's hands lifted Orlando's head, easing his mouth off, then the amazing  
feeling of the tongue on Orlando's arse stopped, and hands lifted him,  
rolling him onto his side, lifting him up the bed.

Orlando stopped trying to control anything, there was no point when the  
three of them were together. It wasn't about equal time, or not leaving  
anyone out, and he had to trust that, and them. It was about giving as much  
of himself as he could, letting himself feel as much as was humanly  
possible, soaking up the feel and taste and sound of them both, so there was  
no room for loneliness anymore.

Someone--he could tell it was Viggo by the grunting--slid into him, slick  
with lube, hot and deep, making Orlando grab randomly at pillows and sheets.  
Then a mouth pushed down his cock, and logic said it had to be Karl's, but  
logic also said many things that Orlando didn't actually believe, so he left  
the identification of the ownership of the mouth open in his mind, content  
to thrash around on the bed, yelling and moaning.

Hands on his arms, hips, thighs, grounding him, the tightness building and  
building, hanging onto the feeling of Viggo coming, then a brief moment of  
respite while the pair of them clambered across him, managing not to knee  
him or break the bed.

Then Viggo kissed him, one of his impatient, burning kisses, and Karl slid  
into Orlando, cock like steel, pushing all the way in.

Every single moment of creeping sadness was worthwhile, every time he'd  
listened to Karl trying not to cry long distance, every night spent alone,  
none of that mattered.

Viggo wrenched his mouth off Orlando's, then dived down the bed, so that  
Orlando could only grab at his hair, then he was sucking Orlando, sweet and  
hard. It felt so fucking fantastic that it hurt, making Orlando's body  
shudder, then the unbearable tightness peaked, and he fell to pieces, held  
by both of them.

Jet lag, which Orlando had conveniently forgotten about, hit him hard in the  
aftermath of coming, so that all he could do was slump forward onto the  
sheets, riding the grind of Karl's cock while Viggo stroked his shoulder and  
arm and kissed his forehead.

Being held, secure between both of his lovers, Karl's weight a reassuring  
pressure against Orlando's back as he leant across to kiss Viggo, their  
entwined hands a clump on Orlando's hip, was as good as it could possibly  
be.

"Go to sleep," Karl whispered, and Orlando closed his eyes, too tired to  
resist. "We'll be here when you wake up."

* * *

Orlando's suitcase and Viggo's carton were delivered at the same time, by a  
bad-tempered postal worker, who had to make two trips with a trolley up the  
rough steps to the house to bring both items. Orlando's suitcase was wrapped  
around with extra strapping, the delivery address attached twice in Kris's  
neat handwriting. Viggo's box was bound around and around with packing tape,  
the address a barely legible scrawl, and it took the three of them and a  
kitchen knife to get it open.

The contents exploded out, across the living room on the polished board  
floor, and Viggo dropped to his knees and grabbed a leather-bound journal,  
making crooning noises.

Karl and Orlando exchanged significant glances over Viggo's head, then  
Orlando picked up a box of photos and took the lid off.

There were photos of Karl and him there, from the trip to New York in the  
middle of the year. The two of them asleep; Karl shaving, with Viggo and his  
camera visible in the reflections in the mirror; Orlando, wearing only his  
shirt, hunting for something in his luggage.

Viggo looked up, a scrap of paper covered in scribble in his hand. "Do you  
like them?" he asked.

Karl kissed the side of Orlando's head gently, and nodded. Orlando said,  
"They're gorgeous, but weren't you worried about Henry seeing them when he  
packed up your stuff?"

Viggo looked down at the scribble and shrugged. "It's not like he doesn't  
know how I feel, and I suspect he actually packed this carton with his eyes  
closed, just in case."

Something about his voice was tight, but he shook his head and smiled when  
Karl leant across and touched his shoulder. "I'm okay, really. We need to be  
here; Karl is the one of us with a young child."

"Doesn't mean I don't appreciate what you've given up," Karl said.

Viggo and Karl tumbled backwards, arms wrapped around each other, neatly  
avoiding the edge of the couch, so that Viggo's head settled on Karl's  
chest. Orlando pulled his knees up and rested his chin on his knees, smiling  
at his lovers embracing. They were together now, and they were going to stay  
that way, at least for a while.

* * *

Orlando woke to an empty bed on Christmas morning. He hadn't expected Karl  
to be there; Karl had left at the crack of dawn, to catch a ferry to the  
mainland and go and see his family, especially his son. Viggo, however, was  
as much of a sloth as Orlando, a characteristic that further endeared him to  
Orlando. The world needed more people who appreciated the value of a nap.

The light in the hallway was horribly bright, where someone had  
thoughtlessly opened the curtains, but Orlando's sunglasses were in the mess  
on the kitchen table, and he jammed them on his nose. The door to the deck  
stood open, so Orlando snagged one of Karl's sarongs off the back of the  
couch and wrapped it around himself, then stepped out into the summer sun.

It was another gorgeous day, sky purest blue, all the way across to the bank  
of white clouds in the east, promising an afternoon thunderstorm to make the  
air cool and wet, with rolling booms that would cover the sounds of their  
pleasure, the thud and squeak and groan of the three of them.

Viggo, improbably dressed in a pair of Hawaiian-print board shorts and a  
baseball cap, was pushing a hand mower backwards and forwards across the  
wild grass, and Orlando couldn't tell where he'd done, because the mower  
didn't seem to be touching the ankle-deep lawn.

"Coffee's on," Viggo called. "But you've been asleep for so long, it must be  
beer o'clock already."

Viggo smelt of fresh cut grass, sweat and love, when he abandoned the mower  
in the shade of the hibiscus and climbed onto the deck to hug Orlando.

They kissed, and some of Karl was rubbing off on Viggo, or perhaps he was  
still mellow from the night before, because his mouth was gentle.

"I need at least one mug of coffee before beer," Orlando said.

"Traditionalist," Viggo teased.

"Wanna go for a swim after I've had coffee and you've had beer?" Orlando  
asked.

"Love to," Viggo said, and the pair of them stepped back into the cool shade  
of their house. "Can't spend all afternoon getting sunburned though; one of  
us has to be responsible and cook some dinner."

"What are we having?" Orlando asked, leaning across the kitchen counter to  
snag a mug off the row of hooks above the stove, then pouring himself coffee  
from the flask in the coffee dripper.

"I'm thinking fish with bananas," Viggo said, opening the fridge to hand  
Orlando a carton of milk, and then rummaging around in the crisper drawer.  
"With salad, and a coconut dressing."

Viggo's cooking was always experimental, something Orlando had became  
accustomed to. Besides, if it was dreadful, Karl could cook too, and in ways  
that neither set fire to the house, used illegal ingredients, nor gave  
anyone food poisoning.

Viggo took a beer out of the fridge and popped the top off, kicking the  
fridge door closed with his bare foot.

"Karl's back," he said, and they both turned to watch Karl walk in from the  
deck, tinsel wound around his neck, sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair.

"Beer o'clock?" he asked, and Viggo took another beer out of the fridge and  
handed it across to Karl, who wrapped an arm around Orlando's waist and  
hugged him, then kissed Viggo quickly.

"Orlando's just woken up," Viggo said, pointing at Orlando with his beer.

"I'm still running on West Coast time," Orlando said. "Or London time, or  
something."

"Did we wear you out?" Karl murmured, leaning close enough to Orlando's neck  
that his breath ruffled Orlando's hair, then pressing his icy beer bottle  
against Orlando's back, making him shriek.

"Best Christmas present ever," Orlando said, squirming away from Karl, who  
was laughing at him.

"Could be true," Viggo said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and  
sliding an arm around Orlando's waist, pulling him back into a three-way  
embrace.

Orlando leant his head back on Karl's shoulder and closed his eyes  
contentedly. He didn't care if both of them poured cold beer over him,  
really. He didn't care much about anything, not if he could sleep between  
the two of them every night.

END


End file.
